


You Better Watch Out

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: John McClane is an Asshole [1]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt wasn't expecting this at all from McClane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Better Watch Out

Matt used to think that he was a smart guy. Pretty much his entire grown-up life hinged on his temporal ego and inarguable bad-assness in code. There’s no reason to be humble about it; Matt’s a hacker _god_ (Warlock’s testimony is biased and unreliable) and his smarts, levered at just the right pivot point, can move the world.

The Fire Sale of ’07 was proof of Matt’s world-changing abilities. It was also evidence of that fact that though Matt’s a genius, he can also be _really stupid_.

Take the current situation, for instance.

He’s sitting on the couch, cold beer in one hand, somewhat-new LCD tv set to the game, McClane on his left.

They’re not talking, but they don’t need to – the commentators make more than enough noise, and McClane seems focused enough on the on-screen action to not care about whatever Matt has to say.

And Matt _was_ sure that McClane was focused on the game, until he (McClane, that is, not Matt) stretched, noisily working out a crick in his neck, then let the arm not attached to his beer fall oh-so-casually behind Matt’s shoulders.

Matt hadn’t really noticed the action, because who was he to care if McClane had old man pains – _he _sure as hell wasn’t going to point that out, thank you very much. What he _does _notice, half an inning later, is that the arm was still there, and warm against the back of Matt’s neck when he leaned into the couch.

“Oh, sorry,” Matt says, self-conscious, and quickly sitting back up.

“Nah, it’s cool,” McClane replies easily, though he doesn’t move his arm away.

Chalking it up to another of McClane’s personal space things, Matt ignores it. It’s easy to ignore it, too, until he feels movement along the edge of his sleeve. When he looks, one of McClane’s fingers is twisted into the cloth, flicking it almost absent-mindedly. Matt turns his head the other way, where McClane is still watching the screen, expression blank.

Matt starts to laugh, because, _haha_, it’s almost like McClane is hitting on him, and because he has that whole brain-mouth disconnect, he says so out loud, only realizing after the words got out that they’re an invitation for a punch in the face.

Only, that doesn’t happen. McClane merely looks at him, eyebrows raised a little.

Matt’s laugh fades into a croak. “What.”

McClane’s expression is now expectant and amused.

So Matt does the sensible thing and runs to the bathroom, locking himself in.

McClane’s outside now, sighing so heavily that the door seems to shudder, though that’s probably just Matt’s feverish brain compensating for the improbability of the current situation by distracting him with hallucinations.

“Matt,” McClane says.

“No! You don’t – you’re not – no!” Matt’s pacing. He kicks the toilet once, just so the stubbing of his toe is confirmation that this is really happening.

“Matt, I’m sorry,” McClane says, but Matt’s too busy freaking out in his head to analyze if he sounds honestly apologetic. “C’mon, how about we pretend that never happened? Sound good to you?”

“I’m not... Jesus _fuck_, McClane.” He yanks the door open and glares. “I’m _not_.”

“My mistake,” McClane says, conceding with a small nod. He doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed, and that royally pisses Matt off. “Now quit sulking.”

“I was _not_ sulking,” Matt hisses. “You don’t just drop something like that on a guy and—and expect there to be no consequences!”

“Geez, calm down,” McClane says, rolling his eyes. He walks back to the living room, not even bothering to glance back to see if Matt is following. “Let’s be men and never mention that ever again. You got more beer?”

“Uh, in the kitchen,” Matt says. He feels off-balance, practically listing all the way back to the couch and dropping into it like he’s forgotten the fine art of coordinated motor skills. His brain hasn’t booted up properly either, stuck somewhere between _what the fuck_ and _why the fuck_, because McClane’s the manliest of macho men who’ve made being manly an art, so _what the fuck why the fuck _what.

He’s still nowhere closer to comprehension by the time McClane is back, so he goes, “What the _fuck_?”

“You still on that?” McClane passes him another cold bottle.

“Gee, I don’t know, _yes_,” Matt says. “It’s not like guys hit on me every day, I don’t have much of a precedent on how to fucking proceed, McClane. What were you _thinking_?”

That gets a laugh. It’s the most annoying thing _ever_, because McClane has a whole repertoire of laughs but this not self-deprecating or sarcastic; it’s relaxed and genuine, and if circumstances were different Matt would be buzzing on the pleasure of having put that look on McClane’s face.

“You really have no idea the signals you give off, do you?” McClane chortles.

Matt inhales sharply, insulted. “I do _not_.”

“If you say so,” McClane says, and it’s the suggestion of condescension in his voice that has Matt bristling.

“What are you talking about? No, no, don’t you dare change the subject, asshole. You answer me right now.”

“Well.” McClane tilts his head, glancing off the side in thoughtfully, and there’s a horrifying moment where Matt can’t tell whether it’s because McClane has to struggle to remember or because he has to struggle to _choose_.

> After the Fire Sale. At the hospital. After the hospital. Helping Matt find a new place. Helping Matt move into the new place.
> 
> A thousand moments in between of the two of them; the conversation awkward at first but then not so awkward anymore, moving on teasing and camaraderie. The unexpected arrival of private jokes, unplanned lunches and dinners, the weekends of McClane showing up unannounced and Matt not once complaining.

“You’ve been hitting on me for some time now.” Matt stares at him, willing him to deny it.

McClane slants a look that hints at conniving, and it’s _terrifying_, because Matt’s seen that look on his face only just before he does something particularly insane. “Maybe.”

“But...” The world rarely flips over so abruptly, though it’s telling that the last time that happened to Matt, McClane was there for the fallout as well, making Matt _exactly _as lost for being unable to keep up. Feeling unhinged, Matt laughs again, wondering if he wishes hard enough reality will make sense again.

“You’re not _that_ bad-looking, Matt,” McClane says, taking a swig from his bottle. He gives Matt a deliberate once-over; Matt barely stops himself from grabbing a cushion to cover himself. “Why you gotta sell yourself short?”

“That’s not the point!” Matt exclaims. “You! You were married!”

McClane nods, still watching, still stupidly smirking. _Fuck_, Matt wants to wipe that look off his face.

“You’re—you’re a cop! You’re _you_! And you’re old!”

“Hey, wait a minute,” McClane says, palm out to _whoa_ in protest. “You’re not ageist, are you?”

“I don’t understand you,” Matt sighs.

Something in McClane’s expression gentles, and he shrugs. “I don’t understand me either, sometimes. But hey, you know me... I’ll try anything once.”

“Please tell me you did not just say that,” Matt groans.

Oops, and that’s a start of a frown on McClane’s face. Matt’s self-preservation instincts finally kick in and he’s ready to apologize, to declare he isn’t a homophobe, he really isn’t—

—when McClane’s palm lands on his chest, and he forgets all of that.

McClane’s hand is huge, but there’s none of the heavy weight Matt expects. Instead of pressing down, the palm merely rests on Matt’s sternum, warm but not intrusive, the tips of his fingers touching the skin above his collar.

McClane’s watching him intently while two of the fingers curl, deliberately dragging into the hollow of Matt’s throat.

Matt makes a noise, but damn if he knows what it is because he can’t hear anything over how he’s too busy having a heart attack.

That’s the only explanation for why it’s pounding so damn hard.

Then the hand’s gone, and McClane’s withdrawing to his corner of the couch a safe distance away. Matt’s still staring at him as McClane turns his attention back to the tv, which is why he catches the _smug asshole_ look that passes over his face.

“You did that on purpose,” Matt accuses.

“No shit,” McClane responds.

“You can’t do that.” He knows that he’s grappling at straws but he can’t help himself. He hates it when McClane does shit like this, making Matt feel he’s the one lagging three steps behind when the only reason that McClane’s out ahead is because of sheer pigheadedness and inability to _play fair_. “That’s an invasion of personal space.”

“I’ve touched you more than that,” McClane points out mildly.

“Yes, well, but it was never with, it wasn’t, well, _now I know your intent_,” Matt says. “So you can’t – you can’t touch me anymore. I take back my permission. Personal space. Wall, right here.” He drags a finger across an invisible line between them.

“No problem,” McClane says, still infuriatingly calm, but Matt knows him well enough by now to know that that’s laughter in his eyes.

“I hate you so much right now,” Matt declares.

“Somehow, I think I’ll live.”

“Oh ho ho, I’m on to you, McClane,” Matt says. “You’re not going to pull another one on me. You’re going to let me stew in my own juices while you sit way over there feeling all superior and shit, well, I can tell you that it’s not going to work.”

McClane crosses his arms, then looks at Matt contemplatively. “How about I just show you that I can invade your personal space whenever I damn well please?”

Matt snorts. “I’d like to see you try—”

It’s the stupidest thing he’s ever said, because McClane is _fast_ for an old fart. Suddenly he’s clear across the couch and Matt’s making an embarrassing sound, whole body braced for the crush that does not come.

Matt opens his eyes, realizing that he’d closed them in panic, only to find McClane hovering over him, arms braced on either side of Matt’s head. It’s like some extreme game of not-touching, only Matt has never known anyone to play with their entire _freaking body_.

The heart attack is back, with a side order of asthma.

McClane’s wrinkles are more pronounced up close, as are the flecks of faded green in his eyes. Matt finds himself counting them before getting distracted by the lines around his eyes, suddenly curious what they’d feel like to touch. Are they rough? Loose? Do they disappear when he laughs, or do they get more pronounced?

Then McClane dips his head a little. Matt tenses again, but there’s no contact beyond the brush of his nose against Matt’s.

The touch goes lightly down one side of Matt’s nose before going back up the other side – _an Eskimo kiss_, the trivia-carrying part of Matt’s brain pipes up helpfully – and there’s really no explanation why the simple movement sends happy tingles down the rest of Matt’s damn body, like who the _hell_ treats the nose like an erogenous zone?

There’s no other touching, but that doesn’t explain the phantom press all along Matt’s body, like the blanket of air between their bodies is heavier than it ought to be.

McClane starts to pull away – really pull away, because Matt can start to see the rest of the room again – before he suddenly stops, frowning a little.

He looks at his shoulder. When Matt tracks the movement, he realizes, in a detached sort way, that that’s _his_ hand keeping McClane in place.

The fingers seem to be curling themselves into McClane’s shoulder as some sort of reflex mechanism.

“Oh shit,” Matt breathes, and then surges up for a proper kiss.

McClane makes a surprised noise, which is _rich _considering how he’s been a dick all afternoon (and, likely, long before that), and then he’s kissing back deliberate and slow, thus proving that he’s an asshole no matter what he’s doing.

McClane’s mouth is a different shape, harder than what Matt’s used to, but the movement is familiar, lips and tongue and teeth pressing against each other. It helps that McClane _really_ knows what he’s doing, so while Matt’s brain is off-line, the rest of him is basking in the fact that this is really _really_ nice.

That is, until Matt’s hand curls across McClane’s collar and strokes down his torso—

“_Fuck_.” Matt falls back on to the couch, breathing heavily.

McClane looks down to where Matt had been petting his chest. “That really bugs you, huh.”

“I like breasts,” Matt says, nodding frantically. “And I can’t honestly say that I think chest hair’s a fair trade-off.”

The little frown is back. “You want to stop?”

“I...” He huffs. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay.” McClane retreats to his side of the couch, unruffled, like he hasn’t just turned everything Matt knows about him – and _has_ with him, this fledging friend-whatever-ship – upside down. “No, really, Matt. It’s okay. Goddamn, did you see that? What’re you thinking, _come on_!” He waves a fist at the tv.

Matt’s supposed to be the smart one here, but he has no idea what just happened.__


End file.
